My Wealthy Grandmother Left Me a Single Brass Key and No Inheritance
The small brass key she usually kept on her bedside table was nowhere to be seen.
I stepped closer to the mattress, my slippers sinking into the thick carpet, but the bedside drawer was firmly shut.
Down below, the distant hum of the old refrigerator began to rattle against the kitchen floor.
Then the sound of the rotary telephone dial began to spin and return to its starting position.
By ten o’clock, the black vehicle from the funeral home was backing down the long gravel driveway.
The tires crunched slowly on the wet stones, leaving dark tracks in the gravel that quickly filled with rainwater.
I stood near the porch steps, my wool coat pulled tight against the damp October air.
The wind rattled the branches of the dying oak trees, sending wet yellow leaves onto the grass.
Mr. Bennett arrived just as the tail-lights of the black van disappeared behind the stone gateposts.
He parked his sedan near the oak tree and walked toward me, his black leather briefcase held close to his side.
